


Sylvie and the Dryads

by R00bs_Teacup



Series: Tangerine 'verse [4]
Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Magic, Police Procedural
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-18
Updated: 2017-04-18
Packaged: 2018-10-20 15:13:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,296
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10665279
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/R00bs_Teacup/pseuds/R00bs_Teacup
Summary: Sylvie's teaching with Porthos when he asks her on an adventure





	Sylvie and the Dryads

**Author's Note:**

> WARNINGS: they are finally taking down the levesques, so ghost brothels. Little bit of violence. Aramis very much wants children. 
> 
> (I'm not sure about the title, tbh, the dryads are kinda peripheral though key and Sylvie is the main character but all my stories really end up being about Porthos I can't quite help myself)

Sylvie finds herself, to her surprise and vague pleasure (also vague irritation) with work over the summer. Porthos invites her to coffee and springs the offer on her and when she says she’ll have to check dates, invites her to his office for a tour of the uni. Sylvie considers it, decides that doing pre-uni courses for school kids is not the worst summer work, decides Porthos is probably only half asking her so he can dump work on her, and takes the offer. She arranges to see Porthos tuesday. It’s her first week of summer holidays, and she had planned on being inexcusably lazy. She continues with that plan, but she schedules in some email time and online research and time to look over her old academic work. Her essays make her wince, but it’s not as terrible as she remembers it being. There’s some good stuff in there, hidden in amongst the terrible lacklustre writing. She prints out a bit of her work in case Porthos wants to see it, and then settles into lazing, exchanging her work clothes for her oldest, softest, slouchiest leggings and loose top, sprawling in front of the TV or wandering out to the nearest café, still often in her pyjamas.

She meets up with a few friends, and goes out to the usual bar with Coleen. On a Monday. Very holiday activity. By the time Tuesday rolls around she’s firmly in holiday mode, and firmly hungover. Sylvie slouches into Porthos’s office, sprawls over one of his guest chairs, sets her frothy sweet creamy coffee on the arm of said chair, and groans about the early hour. Then opens one eye to get a look at Porthos. He looks terribly entertained. She hides a grin and drops in a couple of things about snapchat and imitation spells on it she’s been hearing her students talk about, then tosses her essay onto his desk and tells him it’s terrible. Then admits she’s hungover. He bursts out laughing, and she opens her eyes, pleased with herself.

“You are just like my students,” Porthos says.

The door opens before Sylvlie can respond, and Athos slips in. He slips and slides everywhere he goes, as if he’s sneaking. He’s got two mugs of coffee, one a Harry Potter mug, the other ‘best teacher #167’. He also has a bag of pastries under his arm. He drops everything on the desk, and Sylvie’s surprised by him touching Porthos’s cheek, resting a hand on his shoulder, dropping a kiss to his hair..

“Those are old work,” Sylvie says, sitting up, indicating the pile of essays. “I thought you might ask about some samples.”

“Thanks,” Porthos says. “that’s great, I’ll add it to the file.”

“Do you want anything else?” Athos murmurs, stroking Porthos’s hair briefly.

“No. Thank you. Are you sticking around?” Porthos asks, looking up, fingers tucking into Athos’s jeans pocket a moment before letting go.

“I’ll visit Feron. He’ll be very happy to see me. We can argue,” Athos says, picking up the best teacher mug and leaving, closing the door behind himself with a quiet snick. He then pops his head back in with a grin, eyes on Sylvie this time. “Nice to see you.”

“Piss off,” Porthos says, and Athos shuts the door with a laugh. “He’s being fussy, sorry. Right, you’re definitely up for this? Good. I’ll show you around first.”

London School of Magic and Mundane Histories, or LSMH as Sylvie has authoritatively been told she must call it now she is part of it to sound like she’s part of the ‘in’ crowd (Coleen got a little drunk on Friday), doesn’t just teach history, it turns out. Porthos laughs at her when she suggests it, and thinks she’s joking, but she really had thought it was a specialist uni. Apparently it’s just got a focus on Humanities and Social Sciences. Porthos explains this in the library, which is huge. He’s showing her how they divide subjects and how to find things, and how she can order things off the system and get them delivered from their remote stacks. The library has an entire floor dedicated to postgrad work space, which Porthos shows off with great pride and makes her sit in one of the comfy reading chairs by a big window. He sits opposite her and sinks into it, sliding down to sprawl, eyes closing, grinning.

“I like to nap here,” he murmurs. “Sooo comfy. Ok. Where next? Do you wanna see the basement stacks, or have you had enough books?”

Of course Sylvie wants to see the basement. It’s huge, and dim, and cold, and Porthos has a lot of fun twirling the turny things to make the stacks move along. He points out the signs telling you to be careful not to squish people between shelves, and tells her the times he’s been squished. And then grins and tells her the time he squished Athos ENTIRELY by accident. Sylvie, imagining Athos’s grouchy, rage-filled, understated reaction, feels a swell of fondness for him. She’s always felt vaguely attracted to Athos. She just ignores it, most of the time. She’s friends with Porthos more than Athos, and even with Porthos, they’re more acquaintances who respect each other’s work and sort of use each other. He comes to talk at her school in assemeblies and to classes, and gets them into tours of the police station, and she does stuff like this, and they have coffee to talk about research sometimes, or to help out with difficult mentees. So her attraction to Athos hasn’t ever been a problem. She lets herself like him for a moment, and it makes her fond of Porthos. The library is its own building, so once done they step out into the sunshine, and it’s strange after being underground. So bright. She blinks, and Porthos yawns, stretching, disconnecting them. He sticks his hands in his pockets and looks around.

“I’ll show you coffee shops and stuff,” Porthos says, pointing vaguely. “And the quad I use for teaching outside sometimes. And the building we’ll be using for classes, back where my office is. Ok?”

There’s a quad with shops and cafés, a Starbucks, a union caf, banks, bars. Through a gap between a bank and a small grocery shop, there’s a green quad with a lawn, benches, trees. It’s a big space, and Porthos relaxes there, pointing out a group of trees where a family of Dryads live. Dryads live in healthy green spaces, and it speaks to the care of the university that they live here, in the midst of buildings. Porthos introduces her to Kiki, spirit of a sapling silver birch, skin the same pale silver of her bark. As he does so, another spirits comes up, of a cob tree, brown and round as the nuts, and as wrinkled. She hangs onto Porthos’s arm, feet off the ground, and is mute but laughing.

“She hasn’t got a name or anything,” Porthos says, hoisting the small child into his arms while Kiki takes Sylvie’s hand and gazes longingly at her earrings. “She got uprooted and… yeah. The environmental science undergrads saved her tree, but she’s so little again, now. Gonna probably stay like this forever.”

“She’s happy,” Kiki says, shrugging. “Can I have your earrings, Silver?”

“Don’t give her things,” Porthos says.

Sylvie already knows better than to give nature spirits gifts. Instead, she tells Kiki where she can buy her own things to make some, and seems to have made a friend for life. They stroll across the quad, Kiki asking question after question about jewellery making while Porthos sings to the small child in his arms. He sets her down when they reach the building and she comes over to Sylvie. Sylvie looks down at her, smiling, and the spirit reaches out and presses her small hand to Sylvie’s, palm to palm. When she draws back, Sylvie’s got a cob nut. It’s the only thing you can accept from a nature spirit, something picked up from the ground and of their growth. Sylvie thanks her, and crouches, the little cob spirit just smiles at her. The girls don’t come inside with them. The hallways quickly become a maze, and Sylvie completely loses track. Porthos promises her a map, and leads her over a glass-roofed bridge, back to the lobby of the building that houses his office.

“This is the English lit., Queer Studies, and Magic Studies departments,” Porthos says. “Mostly offices are downstairs, the back rooms are undergound but the front is lower outside, so we’ve got windows. This floor is admin and lecture halls, and upstairs is classrooms. I try to use this floor and the second, because the third is only accessible via a single, unreliable lift. Let me show you the lecture theatre I’ve got booked for the course.”

It’s Porthos’s least favourite, because it’s got a low ceiling and only a single window, but Sylvie likes it. The floor is wooden, and while there is stacked seating it can be folded back against the wall. They head back down to Porthos’s office, and Athos is waiting there, reading a book, curled up in Porthos’s comfy chair. He glances up and smiles at them, twitches an eyebrow at Porthos.

“You can stay, we’re done, just got papers to sign,” Porthos says, heading to rummage in his desk.

It takes half an hour to get everything sorted and filed, all her questions asked and answered, and things ready to go. She gets out her diary to pencil the dates in, and then looks around. Athos is watching Porthos, and Porthos is watching Athos, and they seem to be having some kind of silent communion. There’s a sudden, bright gust of joyful amusement from Porthos, and Sylvie feels a silly grin spread over her face.

“Stop it,” Athos says, shaking his head. “Alright, I get the message. I’ll walk you out, Sylvie. Do you want some lunch?”

“Bless you. Mm, something hot. Maybe a coffee,” Porthos says.

Sylvie puts her things away, and follows Athos out of the office. He waits until she falls into step with him.

“Did you drive out?” he asks.

“No, I got the bus,” Sylvie says.

“Can I offer you a lift? I’m going to drive into town, get Porthos something he really likes for lunch,” Athos says. ”Did he tell you about squashing me in the stacks on purpose?”

“Yes, he said it was an accident. I didn’t believe him,” Sylvie says, laughing.

“I am holding a grudge until judgement day,” Athos says. “It’s how I met him, did he mention that bit? I was here asking questions about a really boring case, I was a uniform cop. He was pissed off I hadn’t informed him of this seeing as he too was a uniform cop who worked there, and he decided to turn me into a book sandwich.”

“Really? I thought it was when he knew you!”

“Nope. He was gentle about it and terribly funny and charming,” Athos says. “When I saw him around the station, later, I said hello, and he dragged me to get cake, and then… he seemed lonely.”

The last is said abruptly, and Athos looks suddenly sad, instead of entertained. Sylvie reaches out, meaning to link their arms, and he takes her hand.

“Oh,” She says.

“He was lonely,” Athos says. “Bored, lonely, trying to deal with too much. He needed a friend, I wanted to be friends with him. He’s terribly important to me. Now, with his permission, I would like it if... If you would, I mean… we haven’t really spent a lot of time together, but..”

Athos comes to a stop and takes the hand he’s holding into both of his, pressing it, looking earnestly into her face.

“What is it? Do you need a favour?” Sylvie asks. “Is he ill? Do you need help? Money?”

“Good God, I am awful at this,” Athos says, blinking, then he laughs, with a touch of hysteria to it. It all confuses Sylvie, but she lets him hold onto her hand until he gets hold of himself. “I’m trying, and doing a bad job clearly… trying to ask you out on a date.”

“A date,” Sylvie says.

“Yes. I would like to take you for coffee, and dinner, and perhaps in the future kiss you,” Athos says.

“Oh!” Sylvie says. “Oh. Well, yes. Yes. Coffee, and diner, and kissing. You said with his permission?”

“Yeah. You must have felt that, he thinks I’m very funny,” Athos says.

“That whoosh was because you were going to ask me out?” Sylvie asks, relaxing. “Definitely, in that case. He seemed pleased.”

“Yes. He says he likes it when I’m happy,” Athos says. “He liked you, too. Not! Not, like, not like likes. I mean, I’m asking you out, with me. Not with him.”

“I understand,” Sylvie says, amused. “I can see why he thinks you’re funny. Coffee, then.”

“Coffee.”

“You do realise that it has taken you nearly a year to ask me out, and that I am going to tease you about that a lot?” Sylvie says. “It’s not like I could ask you, seeing as you’re already in a relationship and haven’t made it a point of flirting with me, or telling me you’re poly, or anything like that.”

“Porthos has already made it into one of his ongoing teasing things,” Athos says, with a resigned grimace. “It hasn’t really taken me that long. Just… mostly taken me that long. You’re very much out of my league.”

“Yes I am, but I’m gonna try slumming it,” Sylvie says. “Ok, I have to go. A lift would be great, but I’m not going to town, so no thanks. The busses are regular.”

“I’ll text you,” Athos says, finally letting her hands go. His have been warm and gentle, and she’d enjoyed the way he held hers. It had made her hand feel small and delicate. “Porthos has the number.”

“Alright. I look forward to coffee and dinner and kisses. Preferably not in that order, because if we work to your time-scale, it’ll be approximately ten years before we get to the kissing,” Sylvie says, unable to stop herself.

“Oh very funny,” Athos says. “I am happy to kiss you any time, anywhere, any way.”

That’s a challenge if ever Sylvie heard one. She darts forward and kisses him beautifully, persuading him that she is completely completely completely out of his league, letting the warmth she feels for him fizz on her tongue, lets him read that. Then she pulls away and jogs for the bus, grinning over her shoulder and reminding him to text her. He’s left gaping after her, which is perfect.

~*~

Sylvie half listens to Porthos, as she goes over yesterdays’ assignments and gives them grades. She’s TAing for this class, and the ideas Porthos is teaching are foundational theory about magic, with a couple of his own slightly wacky theories thrown in to keep them paying attention. Most of the kids have heard a lot of it before, and Sylvie’s heard it all so many times. He does some of his own spells but he’s fairly shit, which the students love, so every now and then Sylvie looks up to watch that drama. Anything that has to actually work he uses an app for. Today Porthos is talking about accessibility, and how to use magic if it relies on a component the receptor might not have access to. He’s using siren spells as an example, and gives them a demonstration of just how unmusical he has.  Sylvie puts her pen aside to watch him show them how trying to use a confusing charm that relies on sigh is not going to work on a person with limited sight. He’s got a postgrad student of his in who is legally blind, and he uses the app for the spell then gives her a quick whirl in a dance to show how unconfused she is. He asks for input on how they might try again.

“Take her hearing,” someone suggests.

“Good idea,” Porthos says. “Felicia?”

“Go ahead, prof,” the postgrad says, a familiarity and warm tone suggesting this is something they’ve done before.

Porthos talks quickly through the ways he’s adapting the spell, not expecting or needing everyone to follow. He taps the changes into his phone as he goes, then presses the call button. Felicia waves brightly, and is subjected to another dance and some questions.

“Why didn’t that work, do you think?” Porthos asks. “Felicia?”

“Adaptation. My hearing has adapted to make up for the difference. The spell Professor Vallon is using works on a non-anatomical conception of hearing. If he used a spell that aimed at my actual physical ears it’d work,” Felicia says. Porthos beams around as if this is the best thing since sliced bread. “I’m writing a thesis on the idea, which is why I agreed to do this, so if you’re interested, I’m interested in talking to you.”

Porthos’s phone rings, and the students titter.

“Oi, this means it’s ringing from work, it only makes noise if it’s work, stop with your smugness,” Porthos says. “Vallon…. Fu- farts. Ok. I’ll be twenty minutes. Sylvie?”

Sylvie gets up to cover the class. She follows up Prothos’s demonstrations with a discussion, letting the children lead it. She takes notes on who participates how, and what they do, then she lets them go five minutes early, and texts Porthos.

*sorry got a update on a case I need to follow up*

~will you be back next lesson or am I covering?~

*Got sm1 els 2 cvr. Hang on, 1 sec*

Sylvie spins in the desk chair, chats a bit with Felicia as she packs up her things and heads out, then thumbs through one of the texts Porthos has left on the desk. It’s a thick reference book, a collection of essays on the theme of memory in spells. It’s heavily annotated and full of bookmarks.

“That’s Aramis’s. Keeps leaving shite in my office then demanding I bring it home,” Porthos says.

Sylvie starts and, absurdly, checks her phone before spotting Porthos in the doorway, Athos at his shoulder. Porthos has, in the half hour he’s been away, got cobwebs in his hair, stripped down to his vest, got a bandage on his forearm and a scratch on his face. He’s sweaty and grinning. Sylvie raises her eyebrows. Athos shoves past Porthos and comes to perch on the desk next to Sylvie.

“Hi,” he says, flushing. Sylvie laughs and he flushes darker, glaring at her. “You haven’t got coffee with me yet.”

“Yeah. Ath? Work?” Porthos says. “Sylv, do you wanna come on a ghost hunt? Well, it’s more of an Aramis hunt really. He got himself in a bit of a pickle.”

“Me? Why?” Sylvie says.

“You’re good at spells, you know about memory, you’ve been reading my current research,” Porthos ticks off. “Also, for fun?”

“We need a non-emotive skillset who is up to date with Porthos’s crazy imaginings,” Athos says.

“Theory. My crazy  _ theory _ ,” Porthos says, firmly. “Time, Athos.”

“Right.”

“Bright’s not primarily emotive,” Sylvie points out, but gathers her things as she argues, heading for Porthos and the door. They both turn expectantly to Athos, who’s still sat on the desk. He jumps down and hurries over, flushing again.

“We’re not, not primarily,” Porthos says, looking up and trying for innocence. “But, I kinda pissed someone off. Just now. Bazooka-ed him.”

“Yes?” Sylvie asks, touching the bandage.

“Ow! No poking. Athos, she poked my hurt,” Porthos says, hurtling through the hallways, Sylvie tripping to keep up. Athos doesn’t seem to be bothered by the sudden spurt of hurry.

“I was trying to get info about where Aramis is, and accidentally blew up a brothel. The pimp wasn’t too happy with me, so I used a nice little spell and exploded him back to last century.”

“Accidentally,” Athos scoffs, darting past Porthos out into the sunshine and swinging himself up into the front of a police van. “You’re not driving Porthos!”

Porthos sighs but gets in the passenger side, pulling Sylvie up after him and shutting the door. Athos pulls away from the curb and flicks the sirens on. Porthos turns them off again. Athos glowers and flicks them on as they roar through a red light, but then turns them off again.

“So. You read anything about the Levesque case in the news? Yeah? Ghost brothels, basically,” Porhtos says. “Some nasty, nasty stuff around. That paper about memory bombs and linking them with torturing ghosts? That was stuff I got from the Levesque case. We’ve been running an investigation about a year and a half, sent Aramis in to play at being a client last week. He got a good bit of stuff, but we wanted the top guys, so he went back last night. Never checked in, got stuff through while I was teaching with a possible location, which is the house I blew up. He isn’t there. We’re trying the next. We have three houses to check. Hopefully we’ll get enough to convict the  _ fuckers _ torturing people. Woo! Athos!”

They slide around a corner and Athos laughs wildly.

“So much for me being better at this than you,” Athos says, putting the sirens back on to get through some traffic and another set of lights. “The guy in charge is pimp in all four houses, he’s a split ghost, ever come across?”

“Porthos’s theory,” Sylvie says. “Multiple ghosts, one person? Weird. Possible?”

“We’ll find out. Also about the shared consciousness thing. If this guy remembers Porthos, he’ll use emotive stuff,” Athos says. “Which’ll mean we need you.”

“Memory bombs. I read about your stuff on diffusing them, but…” Sylvie trails off.

“Got a spell for your basic memory bomb,” Porthos says. “Couple of booby traps, we expect, the real problem is gonna come with the phenomena. Levesques haven’t bothered to pay attention and the bombs are kinda…. Explody.”

“Bombs tend to be,” Sylvie says.

“Yeah, but these ones can be diffused and still go off,” Athos says. “Because they’re trapped memories, and latch onto memory in the target thingy, Porthos thinks they’ve accidentally latched onto the ghosts and yeah. Torture. Boom. Explody.”

“What am I meant to do?” Sylvie asks.

“No idea!” Porthos shouts, as Athos puts the sirens back on. “Still working on that! Hopefully ‘mis’ll be in the first house. Oh crap I left his book on my desk.”

Athos laughs again, cheeks flushed pink, and then he has to keep the sirens on and they can’t hear each other. Sylvie hangs onto the handle and onto Porthos’s arm as they weave a bit madly through traffic. She’s flung forward when Athos swears and jams on the breaks, skidding. Porthos’s arm holds her in place and saves her bashing into the dashboard, and then they stop against the curb and Porthos chuckles.

“I’m driving next time,” Porthos says. “At least I’ve done them advanced courses now. You’re just a liability, you are. I know I always say you drive like a grandma, but dude! Show off for your girlfriend some other way.”

He reaches over Sylvie and tips her out, falling after her, avoiding the whack Athos aims at his head. Athos comes around the vehicle with great dignity, then grins like a little boy and slides open the side of the van to show her, with a theatrical flourish, a whole host of what looks like random crap. Porthos hauls out a water pistol, huge enough that he settles it on his shoulder, a coil of rope. Athos lifts a briefcase out. He hands Sylvie an ipod covered in tangled bits of wire then he pulls out a pistol and sticks it into his belt, passing Porthos a knife, which vanishes. Into Porthos’s hair, Sylvie thinks. She goggles at them. They head off up the street, setting a meandering pace, arm in arm, like they’re on a date. Sylvie follows, unsure if they’re mad, or if perhaps she’s the odd one. She decides it’s definitely them, that it’s kind of awesome, and follows. They walk for five minutes before Porthos stops in front of a block of uniform flats, pressing a buzzer.

“Yeah?” A gruff voice snaps.

“Got an invite,” Porthos says. “Tells me this is the place.”

“Yeah?” The voice says, unimpressed.

“Yep,” Porthos says, cheerfully. His grin is a little scary. “The Flower Duet by Leo Delibes, it’s showing here?”

The door clicks and Porthos shoves inside. They climb seven stories up, and then Porthos bounces on the balls of his feet, beaming. Athos nods, and Porthos barrels through the door in front of them, announcing his presence with a roar of ‘police! You’re in a lot of farting trouble!’.

“Highly professional,” Athos mutters, edging past Sylvie.

She follows them in and watches Porthos and Athos as they fight. There are only two men, and Porthos takes his down quickly. He sets his water pistol on his shoulder, eyes scanning the narrow hallway. There are no windows and it’s dark. Sylvie offers them some light but Porthos shakes his head. Athos knocks the man he’s fighting out with a grunt and follows him to the floor. Porthos spins and shoots a blast of water over Athos’s back. Sylvie doesn’t catch the spell he uses, it’s clumsy but effective. The air lights up a moment and the ghost with his teeth inches from Athos’s shoulder tears away, turning on Porthos.

“Uh oh!” Porthos shouts, laughing, and sprays the ghosts again. He uses his phone this time and the spell is much more graceful and clear, and the ghost screams. “Oh shit. You poor fuck. OK, ok. Just a sec. No don’t try and eat me!”

Porthos douses the ghost a third time, thumbing at his phone, and then drops the watergun and the phone and just wraps himself around the remnants of the ghost. Sylvie watches, stunned, as it claws at his chest, fingers sinking into him. Porthos knocks his head against it, then pulls it closer, tighter in, and it… explodes.

“Wow. Cool,” Athos says, sitting up. “Anything else coming for us?”

“No,” Porthos says, panting. “Not here. I dunno where they are, though. This is just the entryway. The actual action, as it were, is somewhere else. If we try the wrong door, kaboom. Also ow, by the way.”

“What?” Athos asks, getting up.

“That ghost tried to eat my heart,” Porthos says, wiping sweat off his forehead.

“You’re fine,” Athos says, looking around. “Any ideas?”

“Mm. ipod?” Porthos says. Sylvie steps forward and offers it. “Nah, you better do it. You know how to use this?”

“What is it?” Sylvie asks.

Porthos laughs, and shows her what the buttons do. Sylvie runs the mess of wires over each door off the hall and shows Porthos the readings. Porthos doesn’t touch the little device just mutters to himself and paces the hallway. Athos takes Sylvie’s arm and pulls her slightly back.

“When he gets the right one, we’ll need you,” Athos says. “I’m pretty sure that ghost knew Porthos because the emotion I got from it when he tore it off me was relief. It expected release.”

“And that means Porthos?”

“Here? Now? Yes,” Athos says. “Spells. We’ll need release spells. I’ve got the diffusion thingy on my phone and I have release spells too, but even with the phone between me and it I tend to get them tangled up with emotion stuff. If you can do it they’ll be clearer. Some of the ghosts here will need Porthos to get them unhooked after the release spell. I can’t do what he does, I don’t even know what it is. He sort of calls to them. He uses me to find something in them and then… matches it. Sort of.”

“Ok. I can do releases. What else?” Sylvie asks.

“Well. When we get a bomb, if Porthos is right and it’s enmeshed with the ghosts here, the dissolution of the memories will come with a rush of remnants. They won’t be friendly. Shields, that spell from his most recent essay maybe, it’s a fairly simple mish mash of a release and a targeted memory thing. Maybe a diffusion thing. If Porthos is free, he might give you a shape, and you can try the thing he came up with a few papers back, matching?”

“Yeah, I tried that one at home,” Sylvie says. “It’s lovely.”

“Won’t be lovely here,” Athos says, a little grimly. “These are not going to be pleasant.”

“Ath? Got it,” Porthos murmurs. “I think Aramis is here.”

“So do I,” Athos says. “Sylvie’s ready.”

“I’m not,” Porthos says, turning away from the door he’s come to a stop in front of. “If he knows me, this’ll be targeted.”

“Yep,” Athos says.

“That will not be fun. Ok,” Porthos says. “Right. Ath?”

Athos goes to stand beside him. Sylvie follows but Prothos reaches out to keep her behind them before he opens the door. There’s a rush, a warm, pleasant rush of memories from her childhood. Athos uses his phone and the memories wash away.

“Age target memory bomb, oh yeah, he knows you,” Athos says. “Nothing yet, though, except the bomb. You good?”

“Yeah, that one was expected. Inside?” Porthos says, and Athos nods.

They step through the doorway and Porthos shouts. Sylvie flings a shield around them in response, automatically almost, a second later she’s glad she did: Athos doubles over, choking. There’s something here. Sylvie searches for it. She finds a half-formed ghost, more tatters than anything whole, and aims a release at it. Nothing happens. She focuses on strengthening the shield and Athos straightens up. he squeezes her forearm and she wonders why but a second later Porthos is pressing something into her mind and she’s glad of the grip Athos has on her because it’s painful, emotion and thought and shape and scent and sound, she presses the shape into a spell, matching it, links it with the release. She takes a breath and aims it at the tatters. This time it diffuses. Sylvie doesn’t drop the shield, because she’s sure there’s still something there.

“The charge,” Porthos says. “OK. Can you try… did you read that thing by le Foix yet, on the reading list for my postgrads later this summer, yes?”

“Yeah,” Sylvie says.

“I think if we adapt that basic rush spell it might flush this out. Don’t move, okay? When it goes you can drop the shield but don’t move. You’ll want to walk further in. Don’t,” Porthos says.

“I remember the rush. It’s very basic,” Sylvie says.

“The bit with the target, we’ll need to shift it. I can show you, or work out the words. But no moving, try to remember.”

“Yes, ok. Show me,” Sylvie says, bracing herself.

Porthos uses emotion and then colour and then music to show her the charge in the air. Sylvie nearly throws up as smell and sight quickly follow, decaying flesh and death and helplessness washing over her. Porthos mutters an apology and Sylvie works out the words and weaves the spell. She has to take deep breaths before she can cast it, and Porthos passes her a piece of hazel wood, that helps and she closes her eyes and casts, drawing the bark to help transfer the spell. The air clears and she drops the shield. She tries to walk on, something ahead drawing her curiosity, but Athos grabs her. She stops, remembering Porthos’s warning.

“Porthos?” Athos mutters.

“Still here,” Porthos says, eyes scanning the darkness ahead. They’re in a wider passage, rooms off both side. They look empty. Up ahead is a closed door. “Through there. They expected me.”

“Aramis is definitely here,” Athos says. “I can feel him. What is that, ahead? I really want to go.”

“Don’t,” Porthos says. “If I’m right… if there’s something beyond this, can you two work it out? Using the ipod?”

“Yes,” Athos says.

“Good. Stay here a minute,” Porthos says, and steps forward, a sigh of relief rushing out of him. He pushes open the door and is enveloped in sudden light. By the time Sylvie’s cleared the yellow spots from her vision, Porthos is gone.

“What?” Sylvie asks, blinking.

“Hang on,” Athos says, shutting his eyes. “I’ll follow him... He’s still alive. Just wandered off, give him a minute.”

It’s more like five before Porthos comes back out and Sylvie no longer wants or needs to walk forward instead she’s just apprehensive. Porthos comes staggering out, a manic grin on his face, and then collapses in a heap on the floor mumbling to himself. Athos takes Sylvie’s arm and guides her past, eyes carefully not on Porthos. Sylvie’s shocked about them leaving him there, but trusts Athos and lets herself be lead onwards into the light. It’s just sunshine, because here the curtains are open and there are windows. It’s a kitchen and there’s a woman with blond coifed hair in an apron and heels who turns and smiles to them.

“Hello,” She says, cocking a hip and smiling seductively. “I’m Jude.”

“Hi,” Athos says. “I’m death and destruction.”

Jude laughs.

“Are you with that last man who came in? He was fun. He stole my husband.”

“Yeah, I’m with him. Not a client. We’re here, as they say, to help,” Athos says. “Do you want to leave?”

“Oh yes,” Jude breathes.

“Mm. Shackles. Sylvie, Porthos and me wrote an article about a ghost trapped in a park?”

“Yeah,” Sylvie says, sifting through her memory for the spell from that paper.

“Don’t worry I have it on my phone. I want you to put up containment shields though. This is gonna be a bit of a crash,” Athos says. “Jude, would you mind us putting you in a little box for a moment?”

“Yes.”

“It’s necessary,” Athos says.

The woman turns from perfect housewife to angry spirit. She doesn’t look quite right, her eyes are wrong and she has both less and more corporeality than ghosts usually do. Athos grunts, and Sylvie touches his arm. The woman turns between them, and then jerks forward with a sudden cry of rage. Sylvie puts the containment around her. Jude yells and screams but it’s only a moment before there’s a snap in the air and the box around her is filled with something else, something very dark. Sylvie tries to shift it but it’s more solid than she expects. Athos passes her a handful of peppercorns, which help. The darkness shimmers, passing through Jude. Sylvie pushes and shoves, using up the pepper, until it’s in the corner and Jude’s free of it.

“Oh,” Jude says, standing utterly still. “They’re gone. Cheerio, then.”

She blinks out, and Sylvie gapes at the little box of darkness.

“Leave it,” Athos says. “This is just one room. I think there are lots. These are sets, made up for clients. I dunno where Aramis is, I could use Porthos.”

“Shall we go get him?”

“I have a feeling he’s currently playing with whatever her husband is,” Athos says. “No. Better not. Let’s just try the door at the end.”

They have to diffuse two more memory bombs, one with an attached remnant, this time barely enough there to form any kind of phenomena. They try the rush spell untargeted and free the air from most of the charge. They free another ghost from their shackles and Athos banishes it. Then there’s a living room and they’re greeted by a small boy.

“Oh fuck,” Athos says. “Fucking fucking fucker. Oh Aramis.”

“What?” Sylvie whispers.

“No. Never mind,” Athos says. “Aramis?”

“Hullo!” someone calls from further in. “We’re making cookies, we’re at a key moment! Come on through!”

Athos goes, pulling Sylvie with him, the boy walking solemnly ahead. Aramis turns when they step into another kitchen, covered in flour. The boy laughs suddenly happy, and runs at Aramis getting lifted up into his arms, the flour smudging onto his cheek and into his hair. Aramis spins to the counter-top and sets the little boy on a stool, giving him some cutters, and brackets him with his arms to roll out a lump of dough. Only then does he turn to smile at them, leaning on the counter looking completely at ease and happy as a pig in mud.

“I need Porthos,” Athos whispers to Sylvie. “I can’t get rid of this without Aramis’s co-operation and I’m not getting that. Do you remember the way back? There’ll probably be one or two more bombs... Crap, no. I can’t let you. Stay here, okay? Just go along with it.”

Sylvie nods, and accepts a cup of tea from Aramis, lets him sit her at the table. He’s distracted by the child and she watches him. There’s so much easy love between Aramis and the boy. Sylvie hadn’t thought any of them had children but Aramis must. He laughs with the child and helps him make shapes and they slide a tray into the oven, then he comes to sit with Sylvie, the child in his lap head heavy against Aramis.

“Are you going to have a nap on top of me, lovely?” Aramis asks, smiling broadly. The boy nods. “Okay then.”

“What’s his name?” Sylvie asks.

“I hope you like gingerbread,” Aramis says, ignoring the question. “It’s his favourite. We’re going to decorate it with icing. Lots and lots of icing. Right, baby?”

The child nods, and Aramis beams at him and then at Sylvie, proud as punch. Sylvie sips the tea, wonders if perhaps she shouldn’t. Neither Porthos nor Athos warned her not to so she goes with it and drinks half. Aramis hums a lullaby to the child and he falls asleep. Aramis gazes down at him, rapt.

“Do you have children, Sylvie?” Aramis whispers.

“No,” Sylvie says. “Perhaps one day, if it happens. I teach eight to nines so I have lots of them under my care. I like them. They’re brilliant.”

“Yeah,” Aramis says, voice suddenly full of longing. The child in his arms flickers, then solidifies. Aramis presses a kiss to his forehead, brushing his hair away.

Athos comes back hair almost on end with static, leading Porthos by the arm. Porthos peers around the room and at the boy in Aramis’s lap, who wakes and runs to Porthos holding up his arms. Porthos lifts him up onto a shoulder and scowls at Aramis.

“Uh oh,” Athos says. “Didn’t see that one coming.”

“What are you doing with my boy?” Porthos says.

“He’s mine,” Aramis says, blinking at Porthos.

Porthos shudders, then lifts the boy down against his chest, cradling him instead. He looks at Athos, then at Aramis, then at the boy in his arms.

“Can you break this one?” Porthos whispers to Athos.

“No, Aramis is in it,” Athos says.

“Shit,” Porthos says. “Aramis, you gotta let go again. I know you want him, but please, please. I need you to let go. Right now.”

“My baby,” Aramis says, lifting his head.

“No,” Porthos says. “This one isn’t, either. Please.”

“He’s mine,” Aramis says, scowling and getting up to square off with Porthos, who shudders again.

“Nng. Aramis. Aramis, love,” Porthos says.

“No,” Aramis says.

“Break it, Athos,” Porthos says. “He’ll let go. Break it.”

“If he doesn’t-” Athos starts.

“Break it!” Porthos bellows, clutching the child to him.

“Put up a shield,” Athos says to Sylvie, and fumbles at his phone.

Porthos steps forward and wraps a hand around the back of Aramis’s neck, foreheads pressed together, child between them. Then he’s just… gone. It’s not Porthos stood there, it’s someone else. Someone else’s physicality, breathing, voice as he murmurs to Aramis and there’s a burst of shared grief and loss and fear. And then Aramis falls forward into Porthos, the child wriggles down and fades. Athos breathes out slowly, then sucks in a breath as Porthos walks away, leaving Aramis stood with his head bowed.

“Shit, shit,” Athos mutters, scrolling through his phone. “Sylvie, do you know anything about possession?”

“No,” Sylvie says. “Ghosts aren’t meant to be able to possess.”

“It’s not a ghost, it’s a… fragment? Sort of? I dunno. Porthos welcomed him in, he’s like that. Wish he wouldn’t. Come on, come on Porthos. Okay, I’m gonna try something, Sylvie give me a hand,” Athos says.

“A hand? Doing what?”

“A hand,” Athos says, reaching out to grab her hand. He presses it to his chest and holds on over it shutting his eyes.

There’s nothing, just silence and Athos timing his breathing with Sylvie, Aramis shuddering breath from beside them, and then all of a sudden fury crashes over them. Athos’s eyes fly open and he crumples to the floor. Sylvie throws a shield around the three of them and searches for the dispersing spell again, trying to remove the charge from the air.

“It’s Porthos,” Aramis says, dully, not moving. “That won’t work.”

“What will work?” Sylvie snaps.

“Dunno,” Aramis says. “Time.”

“Helpful. Thanks,” Sylvie says.

She’s about to reach for Athos’s phone, maybe try to shift Athos, when Porthos steps into the room. He walks into the shield and looks bewildered by the barrier, then realises he can’t reach Athos and lets out a wounded sound.

“Let the shield down,” Aramis says. Sylvie opens her mouth to protest. “Let it down or he’ll take it down to get to Athos and you are in his way right now he won’t like that let it down.”

Sylvie catches the urgency in Aramis’s voice and lets the shield go. Porthos tumbles to his knees and tugs Athos up against him and the air clears, all emotion draining, the slight copper taste that Sylvie remembers from her father touching against her teeth. She breathes deeply as it’s replaced by calm. Aramis sits on the floor, and Athos wakes up, stirring against Porthos’s shoulder. Porthos sighs and slumps against the kitchen cupboards. He shuts his eyes, takes a deep breath, gets up. He lifts Athos and carries him through to the livingroom, then pulls Aramis up, then comes for Sylvie.

“Got the rest of the house to clear,” Porthos mutters. “Leave them here, should be safe enough. I’ve called for the ghostbusters and SI, they’ll do the clear up proper we just got to do a sweep.”

They find and free six more ghosts, in various set ups. There are various fantasies set up and a couple of weird things where the ghosts are mostly insubstantial. They reach a long hallway that ends in a thick set of doors. Porthos pauses, then asks her if she’s heard about kings. She’s not sure what to expect, but before they reach anything there are a series of memory bombs that leave Porthos on his knees, eyes wide, flooded with gold and silver. Sylvie does her best to clear them, and Porthos manages to get to his feet in time to step between her and the king. Porthos bows, and Sylvie follows his lead.

“Theseus,” Porthos says, head down.

“Oh, you know me,” the… king? Thing? Says.

It’s not human. It’s a great hulking shape. There’s a head, because there are eyes. There are claws. Sylvie doesn’t look too close.

“You know me, too,” Porthos says, standing upright again. “I’m Porthos Vallon.”

“Really? Am I to follow you? They’ll just kill me, for this.”

“Yes,” Porthos says.

“I will not be torn to death.”

There’s a hush, and then the king stills and is silent. Porthos shivers and goes over, pressing a hand to what might be a heart he bows his head again. Sylvie realises he’s muttering a prayer and is surprised.

“Is… is he dead?” Sylvie asks.

“Sleeping,” Porthos says. “Won’t wake for me. Might wake for them, when they come, might choose not to. If he doesn’t, they will come again, and again, and again, until he does wake. And then they will try him, and he will die. They have not got mercy. Not the way we understand it. He was taken prisoner and enslaved, but they won’t care about that. He chose this, in their way of things.”

“Oh,” Sylvie says.

“Can you help?” Porthos asks.

“Me? How?” Sylvie says. She feels the cobnut given to her by the spirit of the tree in her pocket, and pauses. “Maybe. How connected can you be to things?”

“Huh?”

Sylvie shows him the nut, and he takes it, running a thumb over it, then nods. She places the cobnut before the king and Porthos crouches, pressing his hands to the floorboards. Sylvie watches, waiting. The nuts cracks and small shoots break through, reaching down into the wood of the floor. Porthos opens his eyes. They’ve gone a strange opaque blue all over, like the sky in summer. He smiles.

“Dryad magic. Tha’s lovely. They’re all full of love,” Porthos whispers.

Sylvie bites her lip, and gazes at the tiny, fragile growth. Her spellwork has never been the best in the world. She runs through alterations and adaptions, and begins weaving. First she grows and thickens the small shoots into saplings, then she pauses. There are shapes and floods pressing against her. Porthos’s eyes darken. Sylvie accepts what he’s trying to show her and the trees grow quicker, bark turning dark and solid, branches reaching out and up. Sylvie can taste the summer day, sunshine. She finds her next spell and begins. This one is knitting together, turning the branches inwards to encase. They spool out and grow together under her tongue, the spirit of the hazeltree inhabiting and wise-ening the trees until they grow into the house and cocoon the king. Sylvie urges them on with her spells.

“Can you put a protection on that?” Porthos asks.

Sylvie nods, and adds all the wards and traps and threats she knows. The cocoon of branches grows leaves, greening all the room until they feel like they’re in a forest. Porthos gets up and examines the branches before urging Sylvie to help him remove curtains she hadn’t noticed. The darkness falls away and as this last set is dismantled, the house settles. Walking back through, the hallways have shrunk from their maze to a single corridor and most of the rooms are gone. It was illusion, Porthos says when she asks. They find Athos and Aramis sitting side by side on the floor in an empty room, dusty, curtained. Porthos opens the curtains and the windows.

“One more thing to do. Got to find him,” Porthos says. “Athos?”

“I’m fine,” Athos says, getting up.

“I’m coming,” Aramis says.

He’s pale and grim as he comes behind them, and he seems to have acquired Athos’s gun and Porthos’s knife. They’re his, Sylvie realises seeing them with him. They suit him and fit his hands. Porthos has his water pistol, Athos has the rope, and Aramis has the weaponry. Sylvie holds out the ipod but Porthos shakes his head and walks confidently back to the front door, jumps, pulls on a thick loop of iron. A staircase comes tumbling down as Porthos lands with a great thundering clatter. They climb up, Porthos leading the way, Athos and Aramis both scrolling through their phones.

“Shields please, Sylvie,” Porthos says, hesitating at the top, waiting until she’s cast. She uses cinnamon this time, to strengthen it, which she’s glad of when they step into the attic. “Hullo Mauvoisin.”

Sylvie ducks, despite her shields. Porthos stands in front of them and his big shoulders bend beneath the onslaught. It’s like standing on a ship in a gale, but Sylvie’s not entirely sure how. It’s not weather, though it feels like rain and wind and thunder, but it’s not emotion. Some kind of charge, some kind of attack. It seems to be aimed at Porthos. He takes up his water pistol and Aramis and Athos both use some sort of spell, and the entire attic explodes. There are chattering voices and now there are emotions, memories of her childhood come twisting and tearing through her, laughter, her father, her mother, so much sunshine and so much smiling and happiness. She weeps for it and for its loss and cries out as it recedes.

“The rope,” Athos says.

Sylvie looks around, and watches as Aramis and Athos wrap the rope around what looks a bit like a hurricane. As the rope knits around it some sort of spell is woven and the gusts of charge disintegrate, leaving a ghost bound. Porthos throws the water pistol at it and then he sighs, folding to his knees. When he turns toward Sylvie, his eyes are gone, the pupils and whites and corneas. There’s just flat, opaque silver with threads of gold. He opens his mouth and breathes out a puff of dust or smoke, and that’s laced with silver, too. His palms are crossed with lines of gold.

“It’s the magic,” Athos says, sitting beside Porthos. “He kind of soaks it up, when he lets them all in. We’ve got to let some of them go, Porthos. Too many inside you.”

“Did you bring a first aid kit?” Aramis asks.

Athos nods and Aramis goes back down the ladder-stairs, returning with the briefcase. He opens it and crouches, sorting through bottles and bandages and bits of tech, twisted metal, jars of spice and tangerines. He sifts out a series of bottles, ranging from ornate to plastic. He shuffles over to Porthos and presses a tangerine into his hand. It seems to hold some kind of shielding spell. Aramis reaches back over to the case and pulls out a stick of beeswax, which he puts carefully aside. He flushes Porthos’s eyes, first, cradling his head and murmuring about how good and quiet he’s being, how wonderfully nice for Aramis. Porthos hums and coughs out another powdery lungful. Aramis grabs a water bottle from Athos and adds a few drops from three of the bottles, then has Porthos sip at it. And then he snaps the beeswax. Porthos’s eyes roll up, and his skin goes a weird gold/silver solidness for a moment before seeping away into the floorboard, leaving him paler than before but awake and not gold or silver anymore.

“That was dramatic,” Sylvie croaks. “Is this a normal day at the office for you guys?”

“On and off,” Athos says. “Usually a little less chaotic.”

“Aramis,” Porthos whispers, leaning into Aramis, pressing their foreheads together. “I can still feel him. His  _ child. _ ”

“He was for people like me. He showed me,” Aramis whispers.

“He can’t show you,” Porthos says, and there’s something harsh in his tone now. Then he goes gentle again and a rush of sadness envelopes them, somehow comforting. “But you are right. He was cared for, by his father, by the people who came. You loved him very well.”

“I thought… I got confused,” Aramis says, and he sounds so terribly sad. “I thought he was… but no.”

“No,” Porthos agrees.

“Not Isabella’s, or Anne’s. Not mine,” Aramis says.

“I should go,” Sylvie says to Athos, but Athos just shrugs tiredly and rubs his face.

“I thought… I thought it was real,” Aramis says. “I didn’t expect that. They knew me better than I thought.”

“Yeah, that’s a good point actually,” Porthos says. “Changed between the first few times you came, that was just the usual. This was targeted. Who you been talking to, ‘mis?”

“No one!” Aramis says, sitting up, pulling away from Porthos. “No one.”

“Hmm. Okay. We’ll look into that,” Porthos says. The door downstairs opens and someone calls up. “Yeah! We’re up here! Amyot with you, Boxer?”

“Nah, he’ll be up soon he had to finish with that stuff down in Elephant and Castle,” Boxer calls back. “Need any men up there?”

“Who’s with you?” Porthos calls.

“I’m here!” Someone else shouts.

“Yeah okay. Can you cordon off the doorways, please? And see about evacuating the building. There are some nasty traps around, we avoided most by sticking to the routes we checked out before. Oh, Theseus has hibernated, better leave that alone for now. Samara might be able to do something,” Porthos says.

“Right, sarge’,” Boxer calls up. “I’ll send Serge up.”

“Send me up. Send me up? I’m already here. What’s it you need, Porthos?” A grizzly old man says, coming clambering in. “Some light might be a start. What have you got into this time?”

“Lots of trouble,” Porthos says.

Serge pulls down some blackouts and lets in the sunshine, and then sets about casting a series of spells around the bounds ghost. Eventually he’s trapped in a case of shields and the rope falls away.

“Are we keeping him?” Serge asks.

“Yeah. See what you can come up with to stop him communicating with himself. You know my theory about multiple ghosts from one person?”

“Split ghosts? Real?” Serge asks, walking around the bound one. “Oh. Cool. Okay, got a few ideas. You guys can bugger off for a start.”

“Waiting for Amyot,” Porthos says, around a yawn, making himself at home on the floor.

Serge scowls at him, but then sets about ignoring them. Athos and Aramis mutter to each other. Sylvie sits quietly and texts for a while, then gets bored and goes to sit with Athos who welcomes her with a grin. He’s got an arm around Aramis, who looks tired and miserable.

“Everything good?” Sylvie asks.

“Yep,” Athos says. “This is the perfect time to pin you down about that coffee. Am I bullying you?”

“Yes. You do realise that I haven’t got your number? You were supposed to text me?” Sylvie says, laughing.

“Oh. I was, wasn’t I? Bugger,” Athos says. “In that case, this is the perfect time for you to pin me down about coffee. Tomorrow when you and Porthos finish in the afternoon? I have a day off.”

“Will you be taking me and Porthos?” Sylvie asks.

“No,” Porthos says, coming over. “I’m busy. Amyot’s here, I’m going down. Meet you guys in the van? I won’t be in tomorrow, Athos. Sylv, I’ll arrange cover but could you lead the classes? It’s two, both groups know you and we’re covering easy stuff. Just doing some project work and team building things, and learning basic building blocks for spell work.”

“I can,” Sylvie says, she’s got some nice ideas for these ones and is pleased at being asked.

“Good. I’ll get you a nice MA student to sit in and help out, but he’ll be pretty useless on the stuff so it’s your room. Athos, shift, you’re coming down with me we’re gonna need your signature. I’m buggering off to SI for a bit, got to wrap this up quick before the Levesques shit a brick and vanish.”

“You’re such a poet,” Athos grumbles, getting up and going back down.

Sylvie follows after them with Aramis and catches a glimpse of Athos and Porthos with a big man, and then they’re out. The house is swarming with uniform police on the top floor but below that there’s not a single sign of them. When they exit there’s a man furtively pressing the buzzer and the same ‘what?’ that greeted them so long ago (though probably not that long afterall) is given. Sylvie watches the man get buzzed up.

“Honey trap,” Aramis says. “Scoop up a few clients, make it look like nothing’s wrong from the outside.”

They walk the distance to the van in silence, Aramis holding the pistol loosely, examining it. Sylvie isn’t sure what use either weapon was. She doesn’t like to ask what they were for, though.

“Porthos is not what I expected,” she says instead, as they reach the place Athos parked. If skidding to a halt and hitting the pavement can be called ‘parking’.

“He rarely is,” Aramis says, leaning against the van. “He’s also got the keys, the silly ass. Sends us down here without means to get in.”

“I’ve known him more than a year, now. You’re not what I expected, today, either,” Sylvie says, the closest she’s going to get to asking anything about what the hell just happened.

Aramis is silent for a while, so Sylvie leans beside him and sticks her hands in her pockets. She finds the weird ipod thing, and her phone. Aramis takes the ipod and looks at it, feeling over the wires, with an oddly intent expression.

“Porthos makes things,” Aramis says. “Just, out of nothing. He thinks it’s enough. Maybe for him it is. Like family. Him and Athos have this big sprawling pile of people, and they’ve got me right in the middle of the mess, and that… it’s like this ipod, all the wires and weirdness and… I don’t  _ get _ it. At all. I love it, and him. And Athos, obviously. But I don’t understand.”

“It’s just a thing for finding ghosts, I think,” Sylvie says, taking it back and pocketing her phone again. Aramis snorts. “I mean it’s not complicated. Maybe it’s just not the way you do things.”

“Maybe,” Aramis says.

“We’re talking about children, right? And family. You want your own, Porthos is happy as-is?” Sylvie checks. Aramis grimaces, but nods. “Good. Get some therapy.”

Aramis laughs, bending with it, and looks over. His hair’s loose from its ponytail and in his face, his exertion to laugh giving a bit of colour to his cheeks. He looks much better. Sylvie smiles and gives his arm a comforting squeeze.

“Are you two bonding?” Porthos calls, bounding around the corner. “Fantastic! You were great in there, Sylv. That was so cool. Did you see? I went all gold.”

“It was lovely,” Aramis says.

Porthos ignores or doesn’t notice the sarcasm of that, embracing Aramis, entirely engulfing him. Athos comes around the corner struggling with the briefcase, the water gun, the rope, and a backpack. Sylvie goes to help, assuming it’s some teasing thing Porthos does. Her assumption comes from the fact that Athos, weighted down under everything, looks very small and cute and he’s spitting mad, like a tiny little grumpy cat. Porthos  _ would _ like that. Sylvie takes some of the stuff and he beams at her, which  _ she _ likes. He has the kind of smile that, when it comes, clears away all his worry and fear and age. They carry everything over and pack the van while Porthos sets about trying to smother Aramis with hugs.

“Are you still free for coffee tomorrow?” Sylvie asks.

“Yes. Porthos is working, but I am keeping my day off,” Athos says. “I was firm. I told Amyot I had an important date.”

“He didn’t, we didn’t even ask him to work we don’t need him, even,” Porthos says, coming over with Aramis in a headlock. “I’m driving. One of you’ll have to ride in the back. Athos?”

“I’ll sit on Aramis’s lap,” Athos says.

“You can’t. This says police on it. Imagine what the public would think!” Porthos says.

Athos sighs, but climbs in after the stuff. There’s a seat there, at the side, behind the driver. Athos straps himself in, and gets a firm hold onto the seat in front of him. Sylvie takes note and lets Aramis get in first so she can hang onto the oh shit handle. Porthos, it turns out, might have taken advanced driving courses, but that just means he’s confident driving like a mad person. Or perhaps more accurately a blind person. Or the Knight Bus. He slides into small gaps, shoots them forward through lights as they change, spins them around corners. Sylvie’s breathless and kind of exhilarated when he drops her home, finally. Athos gets out to say goodbye to her and to climb into the front. He has a bruise on his head, from being thrown into the side of the car.

~*~

Sylvie loves teaching. She loves when they get what she’s trying to tell them, and she loves it even more when they take it further and their ideas take off, and she can listen to them and their enthusiasm carries them to places she’d not thought of. Getting people to enjoy themselves and understand, that’s her aim. She’s good at it, too. She’s good at stirring the class, at energizing them, at getting them into an idea and involved. Summer school is no harder than end of term maths lessons, and she enjoys the challenge of bored teenagers. She also enjoys their rather unpredictable grasp on their magic. They end up having to put out a fire, but all in all it’s a good day. Porthos’s MA student is a quiet man called Robbie and mostly sits listening, or moves among the children making sure they understand, talking to the younger or shyer ones. They get coffee together in the break and Sylvie discovers he’s studying criminology, focusing on magical crime scene techniques, and is writing a thesis on the ways abilities contaminate a crime scene. They’re chatting after class when Athos comes wandering into the room, in jeans and a shirt, hair loose around his face. He looks good, and happy, and Sylvie smiles at him automatically.

“Hi,” Athos says, with a silly little wave.

He frowns at his hand as if it did it without his say-so, which makes Sylvie smile wider. She says goodbye to Robbie and grabs her things, linking arms with Athos. They cut across the quad with the dryads and Kiki and Hazel come out again. Hazel tugs on Sylvie’s skirt until she’s lifted, then she rides happily in Sylvie’s arms, Kiki hanging onto Athos and trying to get him to give her something or other, Sylvie’s not sure what.

“When are we making earrings?” Kiki asks, leaning around Athos.

“Never?” Sylvie suggests.

“I’ll make earrings with you,” Athos says. “I think I could make Porthos a nice one. Maybe get some bits of coloured glass. Shiny things.”

“Porthos has an ear pierced?” Kiki asks loudly, laughing and skipping around them in a whirl of blossom. Hazel laughs too and wriggles down spinning around and around after Kiki.

“He has both pierced,” Athos says. “He usually takes any out for work.”

“Ok. I’ll make some for me and some for him,” Kiki says.

“He can’t have presents from you,” Athos says.

Kiki stomps off, and Hazel follows, taking Kiki’s hand. They breathe back into their trees, Kiki into the silver of the bark and Hazel sinking to the roots. Athos bites his lip, frowning.

“What is it?” Sylvie asks, taking his hand.

“She’s so very small. She should be in the branches, but she’s afraid to climb back up,” Athos says, shaking his head. “No. It’s nothing. The family here have fairly adopted her. I was thinking about Aramis… but no.”

“He can’t adopt?” Sylvie asks, as they set off again.

“He can, he might,” Athos says. “But he won’t adopt her.”

“That was your thought? She’s a dryad,” Sylvie says.

“Mm. Porthos likes her,” Athos says, smiling a soft little smile. “He’s cross with me, you know. They replanted her hazel here about three years ago, and he’s mad that I didn’t at that point mention the townhouse and the big garden I have, where we live now. He thinks she’d have done well there, with his poltergeist and his dust sprites. He discovered a sun shadow the other day. Have you seen one?”

“No. What is it?” Sylvie asks.

“One of Porthos’s ideas,” Athos says. “You know that kind of fragment that gathers in the motes of the sunshine when it passes through pollen, or in the light and shadow dapple under trees?”

“Oh, yeah, but that’s just some kind of imprint, a very small emotive charge?” Sylvie says.

“Porthos sees things,” Athos says, still with that little warm smile. “He says the sun shadows are fragments, not imprints, and that they move over his skin and sink into him and turn him to their kind of sunshines. You know that feeling where you’re… dappled, the buzz of bees, thick sunshine, summer, no noise from humans just the, the things growing?”

“Yeah,” Sylvie says.

“It turns him to that. They’re like sun sprites and snow shadows, he says, but also like ghosts, because there’s enough there to be a sustained being,” Athos says. “Anyway. He found one at the bottom of the garden and now he goes down there and lies in the grass and… communes with it.”

“Like he did with the thing yesterday, at the house?”

“Yes. Anyway, he thinks Hazel would’ve liked it,” Athos says. “He’d adopt her.”

“But she’s a tree!” Sylvie says.

“Yeah,” Athos says, shrugging. “It matters to Aramis, but not to Porthos. Porthos has this thing. He calls bright ‘heart sight’ and likes sort of… finding things’ hearts.”

“She has a heart?” Sylvie asks.

“Exactly. Aramis agrees, but he wants a child, not a tree,” Athos says. “Home is a bit tense right now. This is me talking about myself, by the way. Talking about them.”

“Ok,” Sylvie says. “For now. One day you’ll have to tell me about you.”

“I can tell you,” Athos says. “What do you want to know?”

“Any brothers or sisters?”

“Ah. I’ll need coffee for that one,” Athos says, steering them more toward Cafe Nero, abandoning their meandering through the quads. Once they’re seated inside by the window, with coffee and a slice of carrot cake (Athos seems bewildered by it and then admits to having got it automatically for Porthos, which is sort of hilarious and sort of adorable), he continues. “My brother wasn’t a good person. I don’t know how much I want to share, at the moment.”

“He died?” Sylvie asks.

“Yes,” Athos says, head bowed, hair covering his expression.

“I’m sorry about that. I have no brothers or sisters. My parents split when I was small, I stayed with my Dad. My Mum has two young stepchildren, now, and I know them a bit. They’re kind of like cousins,” Sylvie says. “They’re great.”

“You have a big family?”

“Not really. Just us. My Dad, me, my Mum and her new family,” Sylvie says. “And my grandma. She’s the best.”

“I’ve got Porthos,” Athos says, smiling. “And Aramis, d’Artagnan. Shirley.”

“Shirley?” Sylvie asks.

“The poltergeist who lives with us. She was a kid, but I think she’s more adult, now. She dresses as an adult, when she manifests physically. She still likes to ride on Porthos’s shoulder though so she’s… mini. He’s started bringing her to work,” Athos says. “Then he leaves and she helps me with paperwork.”

“Lovely,” Sylvie says. “You’ll make a cop out of her yet.”

“Um, no. She’s a poltergeist,” Athos says, laughing. “She likes sneaking into the bomb squad’s room and watching things explode.”

“And if they don’t explode she helps?” Sylvie says, grinning.

“If she thinks she can get away with it without Porthos coming stomping up and taking her home,” Athos says. “What about you? What’s your life like?”

“School, summer holidays, marking,” Sylvie says. “I like mentoring, that’s great. I enjoyed my two adventures with you guys. I also enjoyed the exploding. I like books. I love Shakespeare. I crochet.”

“Crochet? Really?”

Sylvie shows him some pictures on her phone, and he spots a bit of fanart so she has to tell him about that, too, which makes her embarrassed. He prods at it until she goes dark across her cheeks with blushing, and then he beams at her as if it’s the best thing ever and looks at all her drawings. They talk for two hours, at which point Porthos comes and fetches Athos with a grouchy poke. Sylvie kisses him again, and he promises to text this time. 

 


End file.
